Nothing But Thieves Left For Her
by thundercatwife
Summary: "What if along the way to a perfect life, Mistah J and Harley become involved in a nefarious scheme? And what if Harley has a change of heart to the course set, thanks to a brother she calls pumpkin?
1. Preface

"Hold still, babycakes _. Yes, yes, yes._ " Her hand is sparkling, barbie pink nail polish, five bright points of light beneath the balloon she holds high above her head. She does as she is told and stays the fuck still.

J is loading his crossbow.

He is hunched like a leopard fawning over its volte-faced claws, he is folded over his weapon, tinkering and lining her up. The crossbow is armed with a bolt, his thumb pressed into his hollowed cheek as he raises the weapon, tottering the crosshairs from the crook of her neck to the baby blue balloon above.

He is acid, his voice perfume. "Tuck those digits and give daddy a big smile." Green is the color of his hair, green is the shade of his ambition. She smiles until the molars in the deep real estate of her mouth gleam, her fist tight enough to feel her heart pulse. She hears the bow string snap the very moment his left eye squeezes, the chord plucks in c-minor, the balloon bursting is a crash of lightning.

A flap of rubber, the shape of Hawaii, lands on her shoulder. It's as lifeless as her enjoyment, curled and puckered, her merriment exhausted by this point. It is the early hours of day, still dark. It's been six hours of target practice. And she has been the target board.

He spreads his arms wide, embracing the victory around him, his plated teeth bared as he sighs, "Baby, the apple of my eye. So, so, so perfect. How could I ever miss and catch that pretty skin?"

She grumbles, twisting her feet and hips. "Puddin, I don't won't to play darts anymore. I'll move and you'll nick me... My arm is tired..." His eyes pearl with faux astonishment to her disobedience, his lips puckering a near silent _'O'._

"No fun? Aw, Ah. No, no, we can't have that." He clicks his teeth, swaying his head with the motion of his tsking finger. "How about this? I make it more interesting." J keeps the crossbow at his thigh, his mouth and tongue enunciating flamboyantly. "How bout it, girly?"

She perks up, wriggling to the gold hook in his eyes; the voices ring in her head, singing love for their liege. She claps, a monkey toy banging her cymbals, her voice high with the turned up wrinkles of her eyes. It's a cube of ice tinkling on the edge of a scotch glass, she squeals- "Yes, yes, yes!" She jumps around the tarmac, playful for him.

She warms to the sight of his grin, he is pleased. His pleasure is worth breaking over a wheel of nails and having her limbs twisted into a bow.

"There's my girl. Now take another balloon." He purrs, tugging at his ear, his eyes seated low with lust. She does as she is fucking told and picks up the balloon. He is humming and snaking his gaze from her, back to the carbon fiber doohickey. She pulls back the mouth of the balloon, letting it slap home. The sound is seductive, mimicking the fleshy noises of where their bodies meet in either sex or fight.

She is eager for his new instruction.

"Put the balloon between your teeth." Her heart races, a trespassing rodent kicking within the nest between her lungs, she thinks that it must of found its way in through the hole in her face. She slips the donut-shaped tail into her mouth, suckling on the taste. She muses with her tongue the ring of entry, squeaking the rubber against the flats of her teeth. She stands straight, the balloon jutting erect from her mouth; the crossbow is already up in his arms like a child, his face cupped against it.

He gives her a toothy demand, to bend forward with her hands trussed like a chicken. She follows through, sticking out her rear and bending her knees, her hands resting on the small of her back, criss-crossed.

She seeks for his eyes, he who is breaker her chains, keeper of her heart. From one tar pit to the next, her journey was traveled in his arms and not her own, but hell, broken birds cannot fly without string.

His finger wiggles and caresses the trigger without engaging it. J teases like no other, "Do you trust me?"

She has only implicit faith for him. She squeaks the rubber in her mouth, chewing her trust, not to crumble it, but to thoroughly taste her love and savor the enduring mush, that concrete that keeps her bones from breaking beneath him, time and time again.

She pokes out her lips in response to his question.

And oh, how he smiles such a genuine smile for her, it makes her forget all about the bolt slicing through the air towards her, her body long gone foggy when she hears the bolt slap the board behind her.

Oh, and how he still smiles, as the very same bolt which had cut across her teeth and lip, has now left her bleeding like a stuck pig from her mouth. A comet tail of pain in her stretching scream, her mind searching for stars behind her eyelids.

She chokes on the blood filling her cheeks, sputtering rouge on the still inflated balloon clutched between her teeth. The stinging pain across her lips a reminder that her love is faith, his love is torture.

She pouts, wiping her hand across the wound, her pale arm red with a trail.

But his arm is tight around her waist now, his fingers attentive to the wound squirting onto his Prada.

His episcopal rings bump her nose when he pokes around the split flesh, playing with the gape as you would a puppet's hole. She tires her best not to wail into his hand, her tongue purpling in the effort. And, at last, when his investigation has ceased, he kisses her busted mouth in apology. All bitterness, all rising acrimony, all of her best cut rage leaves her with the dribbling blood painting their faces.

He breaks away, clamping her shoulders in both affection and annoyance. She tires to shrink away in her own skin, expecting a reprimand for the missed shot. But he is tender as a pussycat.

"How about we get a drink? And some sugar ice to suckle?" He hums against her hairline with her dangling in his arms. She cannot speak, her mouth swollen, and instead gurgles her approval and happiness.

She leaks bloody smiles against his shirt.

He rests a moment with her in his arms, readjusting the strings he so temperamentally severed. It is a fool's game, caring, hating like this.

The Joker with his mind splayed in all direction, with his nemesis in all shadow of thought, with his legacy and his games, his puppets and his citizens in constant trying, he finds himself thinking of that which he hates most. The small person locked in a nutshell, the warmth of his past, the seed of his doubt. The realizations of his hope and coventousness for her, this monster he molded inside his arms.

He thinks of killing her and ridding himself of the refection she brings once and for all.

Instead, he ponders a bridge where none can cross. Where the faces of the past stay the fuck away.

* * *

 **I might only post the preface here, the rest of the story will likely be uploaded on Archive of Our Own. Please leave a comment and let me know if this work is good...? Or if it needs some work. You can find me at  thequirkyduckling. The second chapter has been posted! **


	2. That Of Lice

When she awakens, aching and dazed, the brevity of her slumber causes her eyes to burn like desert rope. Her eyes burning, are too, stiff.

Wet cotton swabs are taped over her lids, she peels them off with pinched fingers, agitated.

The gold-flaked spackel of the ceiling spirals in her vision, the twirling ceasing the moment her lip begins to pulse. There, knotted under her nose, are stitches zippered all the way down to the cupid's bow. Her lip, it feels, alien, like a numb little animal curled up in the furrow above her teeth.

She snickers, her finger nudging the tiny creature inbetween her front teeth and nose, it's belly shaven and knitted.

The tables squeak when she fidgets atop of them, J's mink coat too warm around her. Harley tries to move again, squirming to find deeper comfort against the rickety tabletops that had been hastily pushed together to create a jerry-built surgical table.

The music inside the club bangs the glasses, shaking the stanges on the shelves like rattlebacks in gyration. She counts every distant blurred reflection as she would stars, the night sky being the liquor display, her starship being the horse-shoe shaped sectional surrounding her.

She gulps, her throat sticking together like hot gum.

She is so thirsty... But doubts J will allow her to drink with her face this banged up. Expanding her mouth, little by little, she can feel each careful cord greedily snag her skin. There is little room to fit even a straw in. She feels for the patch and needle likely to be stationed on her arm instead.

 _'The drip it is then.'_ She thinks sourly, but she notices that he has too, neglected that choice as well. Her arm is bare.

That and now, she is all alone. The VIP section completely abandoned, with only her left to recover singly. Her body is fattened by gravity, mind clouded, desperately she tries to remember the names of the drugs J has given her- but gives up when her tongue twists around the complicated vowels.

The insides of her cheeks are peeling, the crown of her tongue flaking, that gross white sick coating her mouth thicker than fat on bacon. Her thirst is unquenchable at this point.

That is when she remembers the water hoses behind the bar, she could slurp the water in plentiful, by drowning in it. Slapping her lips together, she grimaces in pain and lifts off the table, stiletto's first to touchdown.

As she skirts, wobbly-legged, around the glass-cased platforms toward the mahogany bar, she spies J.

He is without his henchmen, without the crowds, seated all by his lonesome, hunched over the bar, glaring at an empty glass and a full bottle of Midori.

She bores her nails inside her flesh, forcing herself to speak, the stitches nearly pulling loose. "Is that glass polished, Mistah?" His green head lolls, indicating he has heard her, but he takes his time in responding, mulling over her bubbly anticipation until he candidly snarls, his index finger jabbing the bar top. "Shut your mouth."

Crestfallen, she plops down beside him, burying her tender face and sored feelings into her arms. If she huffs, she will be walloped. If she asks for a glass of water, she will be walloped twice as hard. His mood dictates this delicate ritual of rapport and magnanimity, and right now he is no sunflower, but a curmudgeon dragon willing to crush maidens beneath his talons.

She peeks at him from underneath her lashes. He is blowing breath onto his empty glass. Yes, a dragon, smoke billowing, leather wings snapping and everything- the resemblance uncanny.

She wonders that if she professes her love, if those words could alleviate and temper his mood. She skips over that ridiculous thought with wounded feet, bitterly fantasizing over sexual exchanges that might do the trick instead.

But, _no, no._

He is holding himself away, his skin tightening in a way that lets her know that he's distressed. Touching him, reaching for him, would only spell her death.

Her chin perches above her elbow, studying him, patiently holding out for him to break the surface, withdraw from those dark depths that which pull him down so frequently.

He notices her ogling with lackluster emotion, twisting off the cap of the bottle and corking it with a spout, he beckons for her to lift her lips to him and without a word, he gently bottle-feeds her the liquor.

It is a small, attentive distraction from the many faces of his nuisance.

The obsession for a moment to catch his breath, to regain the tattering's of his mind, persuades him to spoil her and, just maybe, lean the rottenness that fills him up. He is worried that his little canary will try to speak, he has forbade her concern and if she should choose to speak anything heartfully, he will squelch it like a snail in the garden.

He detests how tough her heart is, how it can still beat within her chest, still swell full with his fingers crushing it every moment it grows. But that little mustard seed of admiration has a funny way of betraying his mind from his eyes.

He cannot live with such a crippling, he plucks the metal nipple from her mouth, choosing to speak his thoughts rather than wallow. "I have been thinking of my brother."

She is confused, which is the only natural response he could have ever expected. "Brother? J- I didn't know that." Her voice is careful, warbled by her wound.

"Only the old crew know of him and of course, the Batman." He shouldn't sound off-put, this conversation is already tittering off the rails, but it has to pass, it has to go and leave his mind alone.

"What happened to him?" She doesn't dodge around his sorrow, but drives a stake clean through.

He sucks his teeth, glaring down his pissant reluctance. "A hit gone bad. He was meant to knock off an elective official... The new, well new then, criminal justice administrator. But, ah... The intel was wrong, the men were wrong and he-" He pauses then, knowing it's bad to speak incorrectly of the dead. "-My brother was the one left to foot the bill."

He drags his nails across the bar, seething, eyes wild. "Every man but him got away, scot-free. It wouldn't have been _sooo_ , so bad, if I hadn't killed them all. You see, I've always had this little whimsy- This little doodlebug in my head...That his capture was an act of subversion. That some of my more eminent goons were planning a coup against us."

He smashes his glass and the bottle against the backwash. The sound of shattering is easier to swallow than the anguish building. "But my bloodlust cost me the proof. I should have interrogated them."

"Which one's pudding? Who did it? I'll rip em'." His baby is snarling, her lip dripping blood again. He has his hand on her forehead and in her hair, clutching her, yanking her, away in a second.

"That's not what _this_ is." He reprimands, shaking with rage at her misinterpretation. She is after all the one who is always spilling her guts, always fucking promulgating her feelings. He is furious she would neglect that thing, this emotion he is making vulnerable for them, for himself.

Her eyes have widened, now seeing that his pride has been bruised, his needs deafened to her ostentatious display. She slopes down to the floor defeated, his hand still bunching the cap of her skull, submitting is the only apology she can offer now.

"I'm sorry, Puddin'. I was mad like you... I wanted their skins more than I wanted you happy." His grip loosens, hesitating, before bringing her up onto his lap, she curls relieved inside his embrace.

"I forget sometimes how much you are like me." He soothes her, his face retracted as far as possible from hers, his knuckles tight in his plated teeth. His anger is still not yet vanquished, just simmering. But it is enough of a meager change for her to rebound, pacified and jovial once again.

She nuzzles the splay of cards on his collar, comforted in his enveloping grip.

Despite, the almost certain promise of his wraith once again, a question formulates out of pure jealousy and envy. She showers some painful kisses at his neck, seeking the place where his hair begins to curl, it has always been the place where she confesses. "Do you love him?"

"Wha-?" His grips tightens painfully, but there is victory cementing the cracks of her insecurity, for he hasn't dumped her on the floor outright yet. She tires once again, "I was asking if you love him or not? I'm wondering why you haven't busted him out of Arkham, if all you ever gonna do is sulk bout the entire thing?"

There will bruises on her arms tomorrow where he is gripping.

His breath is there, right in her ear, he talks as if he has won something. "He's _dead._ They didn't bother taking him to Arkham unlike you baby, they saw what he meant to me, they saw my prodigy, my partner. _No, no, no._ They didn't take him to the same cozy farm you got sent, they took him far, far, far away and put him down. Because if they kept him alive, he would have burned the world to the ground, just to get back to me. " He shoves her off his lap, his voice venom. "You didn't burn a single match for me. So, baby, don't go questioning my love, _oh no_ , it's your love that needs to be put to the test."

* * *

 **Five Months Later**

Harley ventures the halls of a private fabric shop, her hands touching everything she can get a hold of. The endless variations of textures have for the moment, preoccupied her.

She searches for a sheet of velvet, only the finest will do for her needs. In the dome reflection of the stores security mirrors raised above the halls, she see's herself immersed in the ravines of cloth. Harley runs her tongue along her top teeth, her veneers and scarred lip the source of her fixation. The trepidation she once had over the superficial aspects of her appearance have all but faded by now.

She proudly wears all the jewelry that J has gifted to her to compensate for that dead embarrassment.

A clerk has been patiently guiding her along, although, Harley suspects that the stoicism is a benefit of being one of the most feared individuals in Gotham. "What color would Monsieur prefer?"

" _Monsieur_ , I like that...Ooh." The clerk makes no further comment. "It needs to be somethin' bold and poppin'. The brightest, nicest colors you got, Missy!"

The hard-nosed woman sniffs at her, before with her hand inclined, shows her some of the most dazzling fabrics they have to offer. Harley spiders her fingers along the woven bolts, humming and hawing. "I dunno, they all are lookers. What do ya think?"

The clerk adjusts her glasses, bending over her. "If I had to choose, I would pick the color best associated with your Monsieur. I would select a fabric that bequeaths him, and that too flatters you."

"Me...?" She points to herself, brows knitted.

"Why yes, Mademoiselle. You will be by his side, it would only be proper if the color compliments you as well. Your business dictates that you dress appropriately, and a powerful, cooperative couple speaks volumes without a word needing to be said. I believe the proverb is, dressed to the nines."

Harley selects a purple linen, kicking out her heel in excitement. "It's _dressed_ to kill."

* * *

Harley rejoins the henchmen that J had escort her today, they gravitate, smokes snuffed, hands extended for her shopping bags when she leaves the shop. She follows them down the lot, their bodies shielding her as cattle would a calf when the wolves race.

She knows them all by name, every profile down to the punctuation's and distant relatives. Harley considers them friends.

But they are dull and boring. J doesn't like them talking directly to her unless absolutely necessary. And if she was truthful, it was _absolutely necessary_ that the silence be broken. "Did ya see the pretty stuff I bought J!"

They all eye her wearily, fingers to their earpieces, most of their brainpower spent on navigating the four lane street. "C'mon you guys! I need you to talk to me... If you don't J will hear bout' how you all bored me!"

It was immediate.

"What do you want to talk about?" The tallest bloke grumbles, his voice very bassy. She could very well prattle on about her presents, or her shoes, or her dresses, maybe even her hammers and mallets. But by their sleepy eyes and pursed lips, they wouldn't have the capability to volleyball the topic.

She thinks of something risker.

They wouldn't be able to talk about this conversation anyway, not without their hands and feet removed first for ever having talked to her.

"Have you guys ever heard of The Jester?" The silence stretches and nearly chokes her.

A chuff of astonishment comes from the tall one, "Fuck me running. He actually told her."

Harley claps pleased, prancing up beside the big guy. "So you know bout' my Puddins' brother?"

He lifts one bushy eyebrow. "All I know about The Jester, is that he is boss man's twin, like identical twin." Now this tidbit, is something she didn't already know. Her heart nearly plunges between her feet at the idea. That _two_... That someone who looked exactly alike to her Mistah J once walked about.

She flushes.

Big Man continues, "And that, his brother, helped build the crime empire here in Gotham, if not personally spearheaded the entire thing. He is quite the urban legend amongst us thieves."

"If he even existed." A skinny henchmen hisses, agitated.

Harley wheels on him, lip curled. "You calling my J a liar!?"

A large hand extends itself out in-front of her, careful not to touch. Big Man speaks ruefully, "Don't mind him, Missy. It's just hard for some of us to believe he ever did truly walk among us. I mean, some of the things he did, are just... _incredible_."

"Like what?" She puffs her bangs, cracking her knuckles at the man who insulted J.

"Well..." He scratches his impressive beard, "Like the night, the one that happened during the bad hit, some friend of my sisters, told me that he actually knew one of the blokes that were there that night and that he had told him about what really went down, before you know, boss man iced him and the rest of the crew. He had told me, that Batman had showed up about half-way through, and that The Jester, in order to cover the assassination attempt and spare the men- went head on head with the Bat. That he, turned himself in, in order to protect the project and the crew."

"What bullshit. Why would he save those men? Only to have his brother kill them afterwards... Pfft. Besides, it's not in these _clowns_ nature to stick out their necks for others." The skinny man, eyes her with contempt and disgust.

"You know I preferred when you couldn't talk."

She brings her fist to his teeth, the power of her punch rattling back inside her skull. But for the pain, there's the satisfaction of watching the man's teeth spill like coins against the sidewalk.

The men are deathly silent after that.

Not that she cares, she got what she wanted, more shining pieces of the puzzle to her Mistah J.

They start to round the corner to the vehicles, when she happens to gaze across the street, the first spring storm rolling in on the horizon. She catches the breeze, tasting the thunder and cool wind.

But in her basking...

She sees a panel van parked between two buildings, quite inconspicuous.

And eyes, she swears there are eyes on her. The prickling sweat, the bristling hairs, her sense of balance sucking in on herself.

Oh, yes. It has to be a peeper. A dirty, old stalker.

She moves to dart across the street and apprehend the stalker violently, when a light, a darting reflection from the building above, beams into her eyes blinding her.

* * *

Detective Coyle chews at the lip of his coffee cup, watching The Clown Queen and her entourage make their way to their automobiles. His partner has the camera, rapidly snapping, when she spots them.

"Shit, shit, fuck." Coyle curses under his breath, his hand ready to turn on the ignition if she should move on them. His partner grips his holster, the movement is far too quick. " _Jesus_ , don't move. She'll make us out."

Andrew shifts in the passenger seat, cautiously bringing the camera down from it's tripod, hiding it from view.

Coyle studies her, her face scrunched up on them, her hand wiggling in her purse for a...phone perhaps? Nope, a glock. He turns his attention back to his partner, "Okay, we've burnt this nest. Radio it in, they'll pursue."

"Wait, for fuck sakes, she's backing off. " Andrew puts his crucifix in his mouth, lifting the camera once again, clicking off fifty pictures a second.

He looks back out the tinted windshield, watching in disbelief as she paws at her face, the sunlight fluttering in her eyes.

Her lackeys grab her and guide her back towards the ghost cars, their heads swinging around, searching for the disturbance, before tailing it out.

It is a relief their tires don't screech. They are _calm._

Coyle relaxes back into his seat, his hands sticky on the steering and his bladder painfully full. His eyes trained on the sky, thanking any fucking God for having intervened.

His partner nudges him, "Should we call it in?"

Coyle runs his hands through his hair, breathing out deeply. "Fuck yeah."

Andrew dials in on their private phone, the receiver answers, the phone pressed to his ear, the other ear cupped with his hand. "Yes get me, Amanda Waller's office."

It is hushed for a moment, only their near-shit-flying-panic breathing disturbing the crackle of the phone.

Then his partners eyes read, _'Got them.'_

* * *

 **The next few chapters are already uploaded on Ao3, under the same story name. I will slowly update on this site. Thank you everyone!**


	3. Be Ready

A nightmare, is the collection of thoughts gone sour. But memories, they are the bath the thoughts sour and die.

Funny, how he finds himself by that lake of acid, burning at the bank of those thoughts; torched on spindly branches he finds a memory, turned to a dream.

At the tea colored time of day, muggy in summer although winter in his dream, he stands by his brother with his breath like a dragon, dime candy on his tongue. There is a mass between them, growing like cancer, fractal spines and broken edges is all he can discern of the smudge.

The smear moves, crawling and wriggling, becoming a boy left twisted on the bent spokes of his bicycle. The twitching corpse is wearing a bubble jacket, indeed it is cold outside. But feathers are splayed every which where, sputtered in a circle around them. There are many holes in the school boy, they are pouring out blood and goose feathers.

His shoes are expensive, but what a waste, when he sees that the tops having been soiled in guts, the little boys stomach spilled from his belly. He notices his brothers neck watch in his cold, dimpled hand, _stolen_. Those hands are laid back against his stabbed sides like fishermen line, turned palm open, fleshy like the pig ears his father would feed the dog.

Perhaps, they should feed this little piggy to the dog.

His brother isn't crying, isn't crying like he did when their mom left, not crying like he does when he matchsticks beetles, not crying like he does when their pops beats them. He is only frowning, lips puckered deep, maybe thinking of what needs to be done with the body.

He is always so smart.

Maybe, he knows there is no going back. But an abyss is after all only empty, open space, an opportunity. He is tired of living cramped and locked...He would let his brother take him away.

His brother's face is swollen, lips fat from the fight, looking just as every bit as fucked and marked up as that dead little boy. His nose bleeding a forked river, as he turns to look at him fondly, bottle-blonde and fierce in the blue.

He has a knife. The blade never seems to stop running blood, running red into the snow, ruining his soul red.

* * *

It is the knocking of the night that stuns him awake, his cheek peeling off his desk, the leather chair squealing as he straightens his back.

Wrapped around him, all for his comfort, is a sheet of purple velvet. A precious gift from his Harley, ah, an apology for her months of combativeness, or perhaps a plea for his confused attentions to fall back to her. He rubs the fabric in his fist, the stylus of his pen aimed for his jugular.

Perhaps this... is an alm for the haunted then.

Must he admit, must he confess his unhappiness, that this sorrow has affected him for longer than ever before. His teeth click as he tosses the pen across the room, reading the note his baby left him, rather than gouge out his throat just yet.

- _This is the leftover. The rest is at the tailor, making a match out of you and me! Luv ya, puddin! Get better!_

He stick licks the note over his heart, his shirt open, his body aching for this depression to leave. Tacked to the wall with a cleaver is a babies onesie, it's been there since the day they stopped trying.

His eyes sting.

He wants a family, a new body to fill this hungry hole. The batman is creating his legacy, and where was he, but snuffing out every growing threat. Twisting the turns, building the rail, poking the beast to come out and play.

He left one detail sordidly vacant. His patrimony. He needs many able princes and princesses to contend with Gotham come the future, come the destiny.

He leaves the blackened room, abandons the besmirched emotions, this land belongs to him, this city is his and it will be his families home.

He could fight why he went to her room, for solace, for continuation, for vanquishing, it all wrestles in his mind like snakes in a pit.

He deems them unworthy, slaughtering the serpents that wreath his control. He fishes for the thermometer in the cabinets, it is inside a jar with a metal hat. There is a walkway from the cabinets and closet to her, and the bed, he takes it.

She sleeps with her hands covering her face. There is a notebook with careful calculations in his head. She is above the covers which will make this easier, he settles beside her in much the way a crocodile waits at the bank of a river.

He tucks the goad into her mouth, into the soft meat under her tongue, and cradles her head in his hands. It takes a moment for the instrument to read her temperature.

He is breathing deeply, strands of her hair supping into his nostrils.

He is pleased with the result, as much as a devil is with anarchy. The promise is here, his hand glides to her belly until both his hands gather there and bunch at the fabric in need. His want for a child, he hopes it bleeds from his hands into her skin.

He is ripping apart. The hole in his head needs feeding.

She is laughing in her sleep, her hands finding him from between her legs. Her eyes are lazy, fluttering slits that see nothing, but she acts if she knows what he is doing, fakes to respond, pretends to understand him and allow him the entry he already took.

The amber light of the dark is mixing with her cries.

He takes what is his, pushing her down into the plush, letting the ice from his nightmares soak her down to the bone. It is the soft, sucking noises of their bodies mingling, crashing in that place, that metronomes the time expiring. There is a leaf of sweat ponded between her breasts, skin laced with pink cuts from his nails.

She is still looking at him, drugged looking in the eyes, smiling big in relief. Her jaws must be tired, rusted springs by now. His body is reacting, reaching for that burning bulb of complete, it's there in his head, a switch in the back.

He hasn't reached for the flip yet.

He cannot feel where they moor, he is deadened to such luxurious feeling. This is a living exchange, organic material passing only.

But her hands have found him again, x-shaped over his banging heart so, so sweetly, he finds in her eyes the pleasure he has long been numb to.

And he laughs, and laughs, finding that perfect part of him once again.

* * *

Harley rocks against his sleeping side, knocking their bodies together like timber trees in the wind. He has buried his head beneath a pillow, his fingers twitching in his restless sleep.

She is tender between her legs, a shy wet of blood having sodden the tail of her nightgown. From wiggling her toes, to shimming her hips, the light sting is evidence of their quickie.

She is gladdened with joy. The morning light pressing through the curtains, across her eyes and across- A thermometer hidden amongst the tiger print sheets.

She springs from the bed, squealing silently, clutching the device in her hand. She is elated that J is trying again, humoring her aspirations for a family once more. The last time they tried, the last time she had failed, he refused to attempt again.

Her stomach groans in hunger and her smile widens, slapping her tummy playfully. _'Does Joker Junior want a snack?_ ' She shuts the blinds, readjusting her nightgown.

J is laying on his side now, his flank lightly rising and falling. She speaks softly, she speaks proudly to her stomach. "Daddy works hard, we must let him rest. Let's go eat and make you strong."

She bites the inside of her cheek, "I would like you to stay this time, sweet baby."

* * *

She sits on the white leather sofa, grape soda in a crystal glass, a big bowl of catfish verde nestled in her crossed legs. The smell of fish and blood is overpowering, but she loves the affirmation of her and J's rekindled breeding. The musk is tangy, she lifts another forkful of bullhead into her mouth, flipping through the infomercials.

She cuts past the commercials, phone seated beside her in case she finds something delectable.

She settles on a auction for a pair of Miu Miu glitz heels, her toes wiggling underneath her knees. Her mouth full, when it happens, so quickly.

A prompt appears on the television screen, the warning box glitching in and out. The hazed pixels form a sentence, two quick words that will change her life forever.

The message: **Be Ready.**

She springs towards the box, her hands fizzing with static the moment she presses her hands to the screen- but it's gone. She reaches for the wires, ripping them from the wall, dust and sparks clouding the air.

She has a pheasant decanter from the mantle raised in one hand, just about ready to disassemble the television for a wire, when J having be roused from his sleep, pulls her back from the downed electronic.

He hisses tartly in her ear, his jab deactivating her immediately. "What is going on? Why do you insist on bullying our appliances?"

Her arm is warm where he touches, but she is rattled nonetheless and she hope J is quick to see it. "We are being spied on! I saw some sort of encryption on the screen..." She stomps her foot on the vent, plastic teeth shattering.

His face tenses from the more fucked-out look he had on before, his eyes becoming dirty ice chips, his skin white as salt. He presses a kiss to her lips, hushing her as he swings her around to the door. His nose wrinkling in distaste when he catches a whiff of her, of the earthy reek she medals proudly.

"Take a bath. I'll be there in two shakes of a lambs tail." Her prior nervousness leaves her, as he pushes her lightly above the rump, towards the bath in encouragement.

His eyes now set on the tube, battered and sparking, as she rounds the corner, her hips pumping for attention anew.

She soaks in the water, tracing a heart on her thigh with blood pricked from her quim. The bath bomb is still rolling beneath her spine, expiring its rainbow colors into the bubbles soaking her.

She sinks her head under the water, her hair breaking at the surface like reeds. She feels the panel of muscle from her navel, to the twist and band of her chest, then the narrow of her neck, to the bulge of her skull.

Her lips pursed around the silvery air tight in her teeth. She is taunted thinking of the sea monkey in her belly, there are doubts of its existence squelched by her excitement to be a mother.

The water is scalding, pocking artificial comfort into her muscles the more she sinks in and tries not to think. She lifts up, water heavy in her hair, mascara in her eyes when the door to the bathroom is kicked in.

J rushes in, television in his arms, his laptop corded to the input, searching for a virus perhaps. He doesn't hesitate in flinging the equipment into the tub with her in it. The shock is brief, but nasty all the same, the devices sizzling out, their batteries and motherboards frying.

Luckily, the batteries give out before her heart does.

And when her jaw can unclench, she yelps and cries, hot tears spilling down her face in discomfort. J seemingly only notices her then; in his frenzy to rid the devices, unable to see her inside the tub. If he is guilty he shows it by scrambling to yank her free from the water, and wetting his shirt with her frazzled body crushed against him.

She wails into his collar, trembling with pain, lungs heaving pathetically. The water too, too hot on her, it's like wrenching free of boiling tar. He scoops her up, growling his astonishment, snarling his self-reproach and confusion.

He takes her...takes her to his bed. And drys her vigorously with cashmere, her body taunt and bristled. He works the towel between each toe, when he finally speaks calmly. "I told you I'd be there quick."

She is seething at his disillusion, " You could have killed me! I thought you were coming to... I didn't think you'd be frying the devices in the bath with me in it."

He cocks his head at her, cracking her glittery toes, ignoring her irritation. "My apologies, babycakes. But both our safety was jeopardized. Our metal friends had a nasty bug."

A headache bulges behind her eyes, but her concern flares redder than her agony. "What are we gonna do?" Her hands start itching, gripping an invisible bat in that protective fury, that strongest emotion that connects her heart to his rib.

He folds her into the sheets, smiling at her recovery. "You will be staying here, in the house, away from the outlets. I will be going _rat hunting._ Those devices were purchased privately. The list will be short, I'll be back before lights out."

* * *

There is banging outside of J's door, deep voices calling her name. She lays on all fours on the carpet, feet twisting in the shag, fingers twisting in her hair.

She lifts, on zombie limbs when the knocking persists on the big door of J's room. She opens the door, and standing on the other side is the henchman, the tall bearded one that told her about J's twin brother the other day.

She is only dressed in a nightgown, she leans from her fingernails away from the frame, teeth bared friendly. " _Heeeey_...Whatcha doing here?"

He clears his throat, eyes hidden by his shades. "I was asked to collect you...erm, boss man wants to take you out for the night. He wanted me to tell you that it was important and to dress nicely." He seems embarrassed.

"Oh but. I'm supposed to stay home tonight. J has important stuff to do, he'll be back in a hour or two. I'll talk to him then about going out."

Big Man keeps his hand on the door. "He said that you would say that. He wanted me to let you know that this invitation is non-negotiable. He needs you with him."

"Is that so? He gave me specific instructions not to leave. Didn't he tell you what happened?" She combats, twirling her hair around her finger.

Big Man rubs the back of his neck, sweating. "I wouldn't know. He would say that whatever happens between a man and his woman is not for the sewing circle."

Harley bounces on her feet, hands high in the air. "Yay! That sounds like my pudding! I'll get ready in a jiffy. Boy! Oh boy! I had you sweating bullets, why dontcha use the powder room. Third from the left, deary!"

Big Man ambles away down the hall, his legs jelly.

* * *

Harley feels electrified, fresh in her new gold and white sequin dress. The windows are rolled half down, her hair tethered into two pig-tails. She fogs the glass with her breath, drawing birds and ladybugs.

She even draws J. Her illustration gives Big Man the skunk eye.

Big Man takes up most of the seats in the backseat with her, his phone constantly buzzing with directions, which he feeds to the driver.

The chauffeur speaks only Hungarian, the progress is slow.

"Are we almost there?" She whines, not recognizing any of the cities landmarks anymore. "It wouldn't hurt to stop and ask for directions ya know?" Big Man only grumbles something about having an useless driver.

 _The reassurance is little_.

The light poles dart past consecutively. The dusk phasing to night, and those poles start looking like bones.

That is when she feels the garrote wire lynch around her neck. The blocks having become more secluded, more remote, urban waste, a perfect place for a snuff. She has known this since J took her out on their first date.

She knows not to tense her neck, but hold her breath in her chest and relax into the pressure. She does not want the wire to slice her throat open hastily.

The driver keeps going, even with her feet kicking the back of his head rest. Big Man is too big to fight, but she spins, careful of the wire corded around the most delicate part of her body. She finds enough space to paw the butterfly knife she took with her, her suspicions merited, it was good thinking wearing a garter tonight.

While being strangled, his leg pinning her beneath him, her legs and broken heels spilling into the drivers seat. She takes the purdy knife and drives it home, deep into his hip.

She hopes she nicked his artery, she has been practicing.

She swings him onto his back, spilling him onto the car floor, snapping a few of his fingers in her teeth. He is screaming, and the driver is speeding across a short bridge, searching for his pistol frantically.

The wire is entangled around her neck, blood in her teeth, knife mincing his neck and chest open into a bubbling sort of meat.

The car clears the bridge, the driver has his pistol in hand, his teeth flashing, spit flying.

The bones of the street break a digit in her count, a small back road crosses their path.

She squints, knife so fucking tight in her palm, as the hidden car with no godly reason to be driving reverse on a one way street, crashes grill first into their side.

The back of her head punches the glass behind her on impact.

And they are squealing back- forced into the adjacent rail. The driver, the poor Hungarian bastard, has twisted his neck.

What is left of the Big Man is gurgling on her thigh, she relieves herself on his corpse, blood gushing from her temple to her chin and breasts.

She watches from the other side of broken glass, as a figure leaves the large truck. They are wearing all black combats, and a blacked-out fencing mask.

They pull out a bag from the back seat, as vigilant as a coyote waiting for the eagle to strike down in the cool night. They move quickly and cautiously towards the wreck, boots crunching the sandy glass.

Her head is a swarm of black, fluttering insects. The knife gone from her hand. And then, the blacked out figure is by her window, knocking its fingers against the glass, motioning something.

They lift a crow bar, tapping it against the frame again, tilting their head.

It's all so foggy. The image of silly J on the window is melting.

She looks away with her eyes closed, as the glass bursts into her hair.


End file.
